This is my very first attempt at Millennium FanFiction. So, if it's horrid… blame it on my lack-of-experience? I have a vague idea of where the story is going, and I have a few more chapters written up. Hope you enjoy them. Thanks!

-TruthIsOutThere

The phone call came in at five in the morning, shattering the stark silence in the Bellmansgatan apartment. The apartment— which belonged to Mikael Blomkvist— was so out of shape and messy that Blomkvist had to stoop down on his hands and knees just to find his mobile, lodged somewhere underneath the bed.

"Hello?" he asked, groggily, holding the phone to his ear with one hand, rubbing his tired eyes with the other. It was dark inside his apartment. It seemed, in the wake of the most recent Millennium fiasco, Blomkvist had neglected to pay his electric bill, and was subsequently left without power until the following Monday.

"Mikael Blomkvist?"

"Yes," Blomkvist breathed, feeling unusually tired. Out of habit, he glanced at the shelf where his digital clock usually sat, only to curse himself for forgetting the damn bill. If there wasn't so much on his mind…

"Mikael, it's Dirch Frode."

Blomkvist froze, feeling suddenly awake.

"Frode?" he asked, trying to mask what little hostility his tired voice could muster up. The last time he'd spoken to this man— almost four years before— was the day Frode revealed that he did not, in fact, possess the information he had hired Blomkvist under the pretense of revealing. He'd left Mikael in an impossible position; encouraging him to sacrifice his journalistic integrity for the sake of a poor, victimized woman who'd been forced to flee Sweden fifty years earlier. And Blomkvist had done it. He had bitten the bullet, and walked away from a year-long project, empty-handed. Good riddance, he thought. The fact that Dirch Frode had the audacity to call him— even after all this time— was shocking, but not altogether inconceivable. After all, this man— along with his client, famous CEO Henrik Vanger— was not known for being particularly conscious of sensibility, as displayed by his last-minute breach-of-agreement, several years before.

"Listen, I'm terribly sorry to have to call so early, but I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news."

"I'm listening," Blomkvist sighed, feeling tired all over again.

"I'm sad to say that Henrik passed away last night." Frode sounded like he couldn't believe what he was saying.

Blomkvist struggled to find the right words.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally. "What a shame."

"Yes," Frode said. "Listen… I know that things didn't necessarily end on a good note between the two of you. And you have every right to be upset after what happened during your stay in Hedestad."

Blomkvist sighed. "Yes…"

Frode paused for a moment. "Well, I'm calling because, as his lawyer, I've been placed in charge of Henrik's estate."

Blomkvist straightened up, slightly. "Yes?"

"Well, it seems Herr Vanger made a couple of… changes to his will, without consulting me beforehand. They're all here, and they're definitely in his handwriting…" Frode sounded conflicted as he continued on. "I'm calling because two of the changes Henrik made include… you." Frode sounded absolutely abashed. "You and that research assistant of yours. What was her name, again?"

"Lisbeth Salander?" Blomkvist asked, incredulously.

"Froken Salander. Yes…" Frode said. "It seems, in his final months, Henrik realized the true error in his ways regarding the two of you. He felt indebted, you see. He expressed his guilt to me on a number of occasions…" Frode sounded sad. "Of course, I never expected that guilt to manifest itself in this way."

"What is this way exactly?" Blomkvist asked.

With a sigh, Frode said, "I'd love to tell you, but I'm afraid it's not really something that should be discussed over the phone."

Blomkvist frowned. "Do you have reason to be suspicious?" He glanced over at his bedside table, where his old, secondary mobile sat dead and uncharged.

"No more reason than usual," Dirch said, finally.

"Then why be so secretive?" Blomkvist asked, confused.

Dirch sighed heavily. "Because," he began. "This… change of heart Henrik had involves a lot of money—"

"— I don't want a lot of money," Blomkvist began. "I have a job. I do fine on my own."

"I figured you'd say that," Frode said. "But unfortunately, this isn't something you can simply turn down." He paused. "Harriet still sits on your board at Millennium, does she not?"

Blomkvist frowned. This was beginning to smell of blackmail.

"Yes…" he began, slowly. "I don't see how that's relevant, though."

"It's not really," Frode said. "Only that I'm sure it's considered bad business to deny one's colleague a chance to see through her closest relative's final wishes."

Blomkvist snorted, confused. "Wait a minute. Is Harriet involved in this somehow?"

Frode sighed. "Of course she is, Mikael. Harriet is the new CEO of the Vanger Company. She has her hands in everything. And if there's one thing she's adamant about; it's honoring her uncle's wishes. Do you understand?

"Yes I—" Blomkvist stuttered. "I understand." He couldn't believe it. After years of silence, this man was finally reaching out, only to blackmail him? Unbelievable.

"It's important that we handle this in a timely manner," Frode explained. "There are a number of matters regarding Henrik's estate that must be handled, but unfortunately, Herr Vanger thought it important that you and Froken Salander were seen to first. You'll have to make the trek up to Hedeby Island at once. Henrik's funeral will be three days from now. Do you think you'll make it by then?"

Blomkvist rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," he breathed, getting up and pacing the length of his uncharacteristically cluttered bedroom.

"And Froken Salander?" Frode asked, expectantly.

Mikael stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid you'll have to handle that yourself," he said. "I haven't spoken to Lisbeth in months."

Frode became suddenly serious. "Right, of course," he said. "I'll see to the matter myself then."

He hung up the phone.

Lisbeth Salander hovered over her Macbook screen, idly. She reached out and grabbed a slice of Billy's Pan Pizza, bringing it to her lips, and bordely chewing on it as she scrutinized her computer screen. Isak Karlsson. Boring man. Boring job. Boring run-of-the-mill pornography addiction. Boring family. Boring kids. Boring wife. Mildly interesting financial embezzlement scandal in the nineteen-eighties.

But overall, a boring hard drive, and another boring job from Armonsky.

Salander stood up, walked over to her large picture window, and brooded, overlooking Fiskargatan. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to soothe her nerves. Ever since her legal blunder the year before, which had resulted in the clearing of her name, as well as her declaration of legal competence, she'd been branded something of a minor celebrity in Stockholm. Everyone knew her story, or at least what had been published in the newspapers, which really was not everything. Salander smiled to herself. She still had a few secrets up her sleeve. She cast a glance over her shoulder at her dim Macbook screen.

Salander had not reacted well to fame. She had left the country almost immediately after she was allowed. It hadn't been her intention at first, but after catching a glimpse of a candid photo of herself, standing outside of her Fiskargatan apartment on She one evening, Salander knew she had no other option. She couldn't stay in Sweden. Not while cameramen swarmed her and put her photo on the evening news. No. Salander liked her privacy, and she didn't like people nosing about in her business. Besides, she still had her few secrets to guard.

Salander had retreated to France after that. There, at least, she wasn't so much of a spectacle. She spent a few blissful weeks with Miriam Wu, her friend and occasional lover, before leaving for Germany. And then Belgium. And then Italy. She traveled all over Europe before finally returning to Sweden, almost a year later.

Upon her return, Salander discovered two things. The first was that the public's interest in her had waned, significantly, much to her relief. The second thing Salander discovered, was that it was very difficult for her to avoid people she didn't want to speak to, while living within a close proximity to them.

Salander stubbed her cigarette out in one of the many, ever-present, overflowing ashtrays, strategically placed around her apartment. She undressed, quickly, leaving her clothes in a messy heap on the living room floor, and then walked into the bathroom. Salander turned on the shower, and stood under the hot water for thirty minutes, trying to sort through her current to-do list.

She had a boring job to finish for Armonsky, a much overdue visit to pay to Holger Palmgren, and three e-mails from Annika Giannini that required her response. Each obligation troubled her for a different reason. The job, mostly because it pissed her off. Running the background check on a guy who was clearly no one to worry about felt like busy work to Salander, but Armonsky had insisted that if she were to return to Milton Security, she would have to start off slow. Fine, she thought. I'll play your little game. We'll see how far it get's us. She bit her lip hard, frustrated, and bored out of her mind.

The visit to see Palmgren was an even more troubling prospect. Salander had put off seeing him for almost a year, despite the fact that he'd supported her throughout her allegations. She knew this probably made her a horrible person— and an even worse friend— but every time she tried to picture their reunion, Salander found herself at a lost for words. What exactly should she say to the man who stood by her from the very start? She felt strangely indebted to Palmgren, and that made her more uncomfortable than anything else.

Salander tipped her head back, letting the hot water smooth her short, black hair back, until it pressed against her head like a bathing cap. She lightly brushed her fingertips over the thick scar on the side of her scalp— a reminder of the bullet— and the men— who almost took her life. She sighed.

Of all the tasks at hand, the e-mails to Giannini would be the least difficult. Throughout her entire European excursion, Salander kept a sort of infrequent correspondence with her feminist lawyer. Lisbeth found Annika easy to talk to. She supposed Giannini was much like her brother, in that sense.

Salander frowned, slightly, and shut off the water. She climbed out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and stood, dripping on the cold, tile floor. For the first time in ages, she let herself think of Mikael Blomkvist— really think of him. She wondered what he was doing now— who he was with. Last she'd heard, Mikael was in an uncharacteristically monogamous relationship with an agent at SAPO. A tiny smile spread across Salander's lips. For some reason, the notion of Blomkvist, playing house with a spy made her giggle softly to herself. She dried her hair with her towel, and then wandered into her bedroom.

She glanced at the clock.

Five a.m.

Salander reached over to turn off the lamp on her bedside table. Only then did she notice her mobile blinking.

Missed messages.

She snatched the phone up eagerly. She entered her passcode, and found— to her confusion— a message she hadn't seen in a long, long time.

New updates from your Yahoo! Group: Night's of the Idiotic Table.

Salander opened her web browser and logged into her Yahoo! account.

She paused for a moment before opening the message from Blomkvist.

Lisbeth,

Long time, no see. Are you in Sweden? We need to meet. I have to talk to you. It's about Henrik Vanger, and apparently, it's of the utmost importance.

-Mikael

Salander frowned. Henrik Vanger? She shook her head, incredulously.

Kalle Fucking Blomkvist was at it again.